


Snowed In

by silver_etoile



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28072212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_etoile/pseuds/silver_etoile
Summary: Nico hasn't ever talked to his cute neighbor, but during Milan's biggest snowstorm in years, it might be the perfect time to start.
Relationships: Niccolò Fares/Martino Rametta
Comments: 19
Kudos: 53





	Snowed In

Bills. That’s all there is in the mailbox as Nico pulls them out. It’s not like he expected Christmas cards from his friends back in Rome, but at least the electric company could put something festive on the envelope before demanding more money from him. It’s bad enough he doesn’t have anywhere to go for Christmas since his parents decided this was the year they wanted to take a cruise to Morocco, but he could at least get a little bit of Christmas cheer in the mail.

The only bit of Christmas cheer so far has been the snow that came in with a roar last night, covering the entire city in pure white drifts. Out his window this morning, everything had looked like a perfect snowglobe, undisturbed by cars, just a few people brave enough to trudge to the store.

Nico has never seen this much snow in the city in his life—and apparently neither has the city as everything seems to have shut down the day before Christmas.

“—No, Mama,” comes a voice shuffling through the front door of the building, and Nico can’t help but look up, over at the guy knocking snow off his boots, bundled up in a giant coat. “The buses aren’t running and the trains are delayed for hours. Even if I did get there, I’d have to turn right around and come back.”

It’s Number 23, as Nico calls him in his head, the guy who has lived in the apartment next to his for almost six months. Nico has seen him plenty of times before, passed him in the hallway, maybe spied just a tiny bit during the heatwave this summer when the guy was lounging on his adjacent balcony in just a teeshirt and boxers.

The guy huffs, as though annoyed as he passes behind Nico without even a second glance.

“I know I said I’d be there for Christmas, but this snow is ridiculous. At least I won’t have to go see Dad.” The guy sighs at whatever he mom says on the other end, and Nico knows he shouldn’t be listening as the guy waits for the elevator. But he is, and he sneaks a glance down the hall, at the snow gathered in the guy’s windswept curls, rosy cheeks, the way he bites his lip at the phone. “I know,” he says, sounding resigned, a little bit sad even. “I miss you too. Maybe for New Years, if the snow’s let up, I can come down.”

The elevator doors slide open as Nico watches, knows he shouldn’t, and the guy steps inside, nodding into the phone now as though whoever’s on the other end can see.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, glancing up, and Nico freezes a little as the guy’s eyes land on him. But he manages to hold up a hand, a feeble wave as the doors slide shut. “I’ll be fine.”

Perfect, he thinks, dropping his hand, feeling like an idiot as the elevator moves upward.

Tossing the junk mail in the trash, Nico shakes his head as he heads for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator to come back down. It isn’t as if he has trouble talking to people, but for some reason, whenever he sees Number 23, he can’t seem to find the words.

Upstairs, Nico passes number 23 on the way to his own apartment. Where his door is festively decorated with a wreath, there’s nothing on 23’s door.

Nico drops the bills on the table as he steps inside and moves to the window. The snow only seems to be getting higher, any footprints or car tracks already obliterated in the short time it took for him to check his mail. The sky above is an icy grey and Nico turns up the dial on the old radiator as he shivers. His balcony is covered in a thick layer of snow, piled neatly on the railing, settled in gentle waves on the floor.

Reaching over, Nico plugs in the twinkly lights he has haphazardly strung over the window. Even just this much Christmas brightens his spirit as he stands, gazing out at the street below.

Normally, Nico would go home for Christmas, would take the train all the way back to Rome and spend the holidays with his parents and grandparents and many relatives he only saw once a year, but this year, he’s staying in Milan. Not just because his parents are on a cruise somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, but because he’s lived in Milan for two years now and it’s about time he starts his own traditions.

Nico isn’t exactly sure what those traditions are since most of his friends from work will be spending the holidays at home, but he’s going to figure it out.

The little Christmas tree in the corner by the TV is maybe a little bare aside from a string of lights and a few ornaments Nico made just so it wouldn’t look so terribly sad, but it’s still festive and cheery, and Nico is pretty sure a mug of mulled wine would set the mood perfectly.

As he stands by the window, movement catches Nico’s eye on the balcony. Well, not _his_ balcony, but the neighbor’s. Number 23 is standing at the railing, wearing only a long-sleeve teeshirt, gazing over the city. The wind rustles his auburn hair, and he doesn’t seem to notice that Nico can see him plainly. Their balconies are, after all, side by side.

Six months the guy has lived next door to him and Nico still doesn’t know his name. He guesses, by the looks of things, that this is the guy’s first time on his own. He can’t be that much younger than Nico and judging by that phone call earlier, his family doesn’t live close by.

Nico remembers his first year in Milan. As excited as he had been to start fresh, get away from all the things plaguing him back in Rome, it had been scary. There had been no safety net, no one to come to his rescue if he did do something wrong. He’s learned to live with it now, two years later, but he remembers how hard it was.

On the balcony, Nico can see how the guy sighs, shoulders dropping as he turns to head back inside, out of the cold.

Before Nico can think too much about it, his phone vibrates with a text and he pulls it from his pocket.

_Merry Christmas Eve! Are you coming home? We could meet up and talk._

Shaking his head at Maddalena’s text, Nico tucks the phone away without answering. He knows what she wants to talk about—their breakup. Even though it’s been months. Even though it wasn’t working even before Nico took a job in Milan and moved hundreds of miles away. They’d tried the long-distance thing, but it hadn’t worked. Nico hadn’t wanted it to work.

As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing to talk about unless she wants to discuss this strange pull he feels toward his neighbor he’s never spoken to.

He could talk to the guy, Nico thinks as he moves over to the couch and sinks into the cushions. It’s still snowing out the window—thick flakes fluttering past, deadening the usual sounds of the city. It’s not as if Nico has any spectacular plans for Christmas and apparently, neither does his neighbor. Maybe they could be lonely together.

Grabbing a piece of paper off the table, Nico doesn’t really think before he writes.

_If you don’t have anything to do tonight, you’re welcome to come over to mine and celebrate together._  
_— your neighbor, #25_

It’s not his best note, but it gets the point across, he thinks as he folds it in half. He could just go talk to the guy, knock on his door and ask him in person, but Nico isn’t ready for face-to-face rejection quite yet. Not when it comes to the cute guy who wears too much blue and watches some TV show that comes with a laugh track that Nico can sometimes hear through the walls.

Out in the hall, Nico moves purposefully towards his neighbor’s door, pausing only as he reaches it, note clutched in his hand. He’s better at writing things down than he is at saying them, so he slips the note under the door before he can rethink it and retreats to his own flat.

If Number 23 comes over, they can spend the evening drinking mulled wine and watching bad Christmas movies. And if he doesn’t, at least Nico took the first step.

*

Nico hums along to the holiday song playing through the old radio, set up in the windowsill, as if that might help it catch the signal, antenna bent in places as it reaches toward the sky. Nico is pretty sure the radio came with the apartment and he’s never bothered to get rid of it.

He can’t help glancing at the clock, the minute hand ticking past the six. It isn’t like he gave a specific time on his note, but he’s not sure how late is too late to stop hoping.

He should have just knocked on the door, he thinks as he sighs, curled on the couch with a warm blanket draped over his lap. He should have knocked on the door and _asked_ the guy to come over, maybe introduced himself properly instead of hoping the guy knew who he was and wouldn’t be freaked out by a stranger inviting him over on Christmas Eve.

It’s always been Nico’s problem, not being straightforward, not saying what he’s thinking instead of getting lost in his own head.

Well, he decides as the minutes tick by and the sky grows darker out the window, Christmas lights gleaming against the twilight, he’ll have a nice quiet evening at home.

Just as he’s thinking of heating up some cider and putting on a cheesy holiday cartoon, a knock comes at the door.

He doesn’t allow himself to hope, not until he opens the door and Number 23 is standing in his doorway, looking only slightly unsure, as if rethinking this whole thing. But Nico smiles, a rush deep inside, pleased to find him there.

“Hey,” he says, although the words seems entirely not enough for the situation. “You came.”

“Yeah,” the guy mutters, like he’s not sure why he did, but Nico’s not going to give him time to rethink his decision as he opens the door wider and invites him in.

“Come in,” he says, leaving the door open as he retreats into the apartment, hastily grabbing a few blankets and attempting to fold them into something decent.

“I can see you were expecting me,” the guy says, and it might be sarcastic, but it makes Nico laugh as he tosses the blankets over the back of the couch.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist my note.”

“It was so heartfelt,” the guy replies, glancing around the flat, eyes falling on the tree, and that was definitely sarcastic, but Nico just smiles. This guy isn’t exactly what he expected, in all those months he’s had to build up an idea in his mind, but he likes it.

“I’m Niccolò,” he says instead, standing awkwardly in his own living room. He hadn’t exactly had a plan beyond getting the guy over here. The guy just nods, hands on his hips, and Nico sees him taking in the decor on the walls, the weird art pieces Nico has thrown up there, the ones he makes in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep. “Do you have a name or should I just keep calling you Number 23?”

The guy glances at him next and Nico is sure he sees a hint of a smile.

“Martino,” he says finally, dropping his hands, looking a little less awkward.

“Do you want some mulled wine?” Nico asks as Martino stands there, not taking a seat, and he realizes how weird this is. He doesn’t even know Martino but he’s invited him over for Christmas Eve. At least they can have something to drink, something to smooth over the moment. “I was gonna heat some up.”

“Sure,” Martino says and Nico’s glad for something to do, heading for the kitchen and turning on the stove. He may not be a great cook, but he can heat up some Christmas wine.

As he stirs, he glances over his shoulder to the living room where Martino seems to be inspecting one of the paintings on the wall.

“Did you do this?”

It’s one Nico made just after moving to Milan, in a fit of sleepless nights, stress, and worry about the future. He’d call it abstract, but there are shadows of shapes in between the swirls of greens and blues that remind him of those first few months.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve made most of the art in here.”

“They’re good,” Martino says, and Nico smiles, turning back to the wine. It’s bubbling, probably too hot now, and he pulls it from the burner.

“Sometimes I feel like I can’t sit still, you know? So I paint,” he says with a shrug, searching in the cupboard for matching mugs, but he can only come up with two mismatched cups. He pours out the wine as Martino finally takes a seat in one of the old chairs by the window.

“You’ve been here a while, haven’t you?” Martino asks as Nico hands him a mug and takes the couch, sitting cross-legged on the cushion.

“I moved here a couple years ago, after Uni,” he says, blowing on his wine. It’s definitely too hot to drink. “I got lucky, found a job up here.”

“Making puppet art?” Martino asks, eyebrows rising as he nods at the puppets sitting on the bookcase against the far wall.

Nico laughs. “Those were my grandpa’s. He gave them to me when I left Rome.” He looks back at Martino, who seems to be concentrating too much on his wine. “Where’s your family?”

Martino jerks his shoulder, as though he doesn’t really want to talk about it. “Rome too, actually. My parents are divorced but I was supposed to go see my mom. I guess you knew that already.”

Nico can’t admit he’d been eavesdropping this morning, but they both know he had been.

“On the bright side,” he says gently, and Martino looks up, “you’d never get a white Christmas in Rome.”

He’s glad when Martino smiles, slight, and nods. “I guess that’s true.”

 _And if you’d gone home, I would never have actually gotten you over here_ , Nico thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He supposes it’s always been in the back of his mind to talk to Martino, waiting for the perfect opportunity, as if there would ever be one.

“Plus,” Martino says after a minute, taking a sip of his wine, “at least now I have a real excuse not to go to my dad’s house.”

“You don’t get along?”

Martino shrugs, as if maybe he shouldn’t have brought it up. “It’s just been weird since I—” He stops, abrupt, and Nico tilts his head to the side.

“Since you what?”

For a second, Martino bites his lip, as if debating what to say, if he should answer.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Nico says after a minute. He hadn’t meant to open up any kind of emotional trauma, especially not on Christmas Eve.

Martino shakes his head firmly. “I came out a few years ago and ever since then, he’s kind of pulled away, I guess. I mean, he had before with my mom but it’s different now.”

Nico just nods slowly. So Martino is gay. He hadn’t been looking for confirmation, but it’s nice to know all his hopes aren’t completely unfounded.

Martino is watching him now, as though waiting for him to say something about it, about the little bit of information he just dropped.

“At least you still have your mom,” Nico says, and he sees Martino’s shoulders relax, as if he’d been tensed, waiting.

“Yeah,” Martino mutters. “And now she’s all alone at Christmas.”

Martino shouldn’t sad, Nico decides as they sit there. No matter how pretty he is with his Bambi-like eyes, the downturn to his lips as he sighs.

“I’m sure she understands,” he says, though he doesn’t know. He knows Martino’s mom about as well as he knows Martino right now.

Martino makes a noise that might be agreement or it might not. Nico can’t really tell.

“How about a movie?” Nico suggests as they sit there, silence falling between them, and though Nico is pretty sure he could spend an eternity just looking at Martino, he thinks that might be a little weird.

“You sure know how to party,” Martino says, without any sharpness, and he’s smiling when Nico glances at him.

“You just wait,” Nico assures him as he grabs the remote and flicks on the TV. He catches how Martino watches him, though, and can’t help smiling to himself as he turns his attention to the screen.

*

They’re on their third glasses of wine and Martino’s cheeks are an adorable shade of pink as he laughs at Nico, the movie long-forgotten on the screen.

“I don’t know what I thought,” Martino says, looking perfectly comfortable in Nico’s chair, fingers playing absentmindedly with one of the ornaments on the tree. “I thought it would be fun to live in Milan. It’s supposed to be romantic but only if you have a boyfriend, I guess.”

“I love Milan,” Nico says, sincere, smiling at the way Martino is slumped in the chair. Outside, the sky has gone dark, lit up only by twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the snow. “I always wanted to come here, just to get away from everything.”

Martino doesn’t ask what ‘everything’ is, and Nico’s glad. He doesn’t know if he could explain it—everything that happened with Luai and Maddalena and how hard it had been to convince everyone he could handle himself.

“I could have stayed in Rome,” Martino goes on, “done my residency there.”

“But what neighbor would have invited you over for drinks and cartoons?” Nico asks, and Martino laughs, eyes crinkling as he gazes at Nico.

“I guess it would have been Mr. Mancini, though he smells a lot like mothballs.”

“Clearly you got the better deal with me,” Nico points out, and Martino ducks his head as he smiles. Nico feels a rush deep in his stomach, a warmth unrelated to the wine. God, he’s adorable.

“I guess so,” Martino agrees.

“So you’re going to be a doctor?” Nico asks, and Martino laughs.

“Someday. If I ever get through this.”

“You will,” Nico assures him, as if he knows. He doesn’t know anything about medicine. He went to school for art, for God’s sake. The only thing he knows about is the color wheel. “And you’re going to come to love Milan, I’m sure.

Martino just laughs, shaking his head, like he doesn’t quite believe that, but Nico is sure it will happen. Who wouldn’t love Milan?

“You know what we need?” Nico says a second later, as the movie plays and the snow piles up on the balcony.

“More wine?”

“Food,” Nico says simply, struggling to push himself up from his comfortable spot.

“Food?” Martino repeats, watching him. “Do you have any food? ‘Cause I don’t think we’re going to get any delivery tonight.”

“What kind of question is that?” Nico asks, smoothing down his sweater. It’s one his mom sent him in the mail, covered in Christmas trees and reindeer. “Have you been peeking in my grocery bags?”

“I’ve heard your smoke alarm go off,” Marti says, and Nico scoffs, grabbing him by the arm and pulling Martino off the chair.

“That’s no indication of good cooking,” he says simply, heading for the kitchen, pleased when Martino lets him pull him along by the sleeve. “I could have been lighting candles.”

“Were you?”

At the cupboard, Nico pauses. “Let’s see what we have,” he says instead of answering, knowing somehow that Martino is smirking at him. Martino comes over to perch a hip against the counter as Nico rummages through boxes of pasta, canned soup his mother would scoff at, plenty of biscuits. “Nothing very Christmassy.” He pulls down a couple boxes and turns to Martino. “Linguine or risotto?”

Martino pauses, glancing at Nico instead of the boxes, an amused tilt to his lips. “Do you have anything to put in either of those?”

“I need a little faith, Marti,” Nico says gently, setting the boxes on the counter and pulling open the fridge. It’s bare, but there are a couple vegetables, even a package of sausage that he pulls out triumphantly. “We throw in some wine and it’ll be perfect.”

“Wine does make everything better,” Martino agrees, and Nico grins at him as he turns on the sink and fills a pot with water.

With the water heating up, Nico turns his attention to the sausage, tossing it in a pan and pulling out whatever vegetables he’s got and handing them to Martino.

“Mind chopping?”

“When I got your note,” Martino says as Nico pulls out a cutting board and a knife, “I didn’t know I’d have to do work.”

“Work,” Nico scoffs. “You’d do the same if you were in your apartment, and you wouldn’t have me to keep you company.” He thinks Marti got the better deal as he hands over the knife, fingers brushing against Martino’s as he takes it.

Martino’s gaze flicks from their fingers to Nico’s eyes, just for a second, and Nico takes a breath. The air in the kitchen seems so much warmer than it had a second ago, but Martino pulls away, turning to the cutting board, and Nico does as well, back to the stove. He does peek back at Martino as he chops the vegetables and catches his smile down at the cutting board, and Nico has to turn away before Martino can catch him looking, catch him smiling too.

*

“Can you get drunk from pasta?” Martino asks as he raises his eyebrows at his plate, and Nico rolls his eyes.

“I didn’t put that much wine in.”

They’re sitting at the small table Nico rarely uses, small enough that his knees bump into Martino’s, and Martino looks up at him.

“I think I could get drunk just off the smell.”

So it smells strong, Nico admits. It’s Christmas Eve. What else are they going to do beside gorge themselves on food and wine?

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Nico assures him, twirling pasta around his fork and taking a big bite. He immediately regrets it as the taste hits him—so strong that it almost burns his taste buds. He knows Martino is watching him, so he chews, trying not to cough, trying to swallow. “See?”

“Your eyes are watering,” Martino says, not even trying to stop himself from laughing, not daring to touch his plate.

“I don’t think it’ll make you drunk,” Nico says, ignoring his comment, and Martino doesn’t look convinced, but he takes a much smaller bite than Nico did.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles around his food, nose wrinkling as he chews and swallows quickly. “That could wake the dead.”

“It’s not burned,” Nico points out, and even he has to admit he’s not a great cook.

Martino’s smile is so soft, almost fond, that Nico feels his heart thud in his chest. He may not be a great cook, but he is good at getting cute guys over to his apartment, plying them with food and drink and fun. He is good at that.

“Why’d you pick tonight?” Martino says after a minute, food forgotten or ignored as he watches Nico. “We’ve never talked before.”

Nico can’t say exactly what made him write that note today, if it was just feeling bad that Martino would be spending Christmas all alone, if he just wanted an excuse to talk to him, if he’d spent the last six months seeing Martino in the halls and decided today was the day to do something.

“Why’d you decide to come?” he asks instead, and Martino pauses, twirling his fork in his fingers.

“I didn’t want be alone,” he says slowly, glancing up at Nico, who nods.

“Me neither.”

Nico supposes he could have talked to Martino any number of times before tonight. For a while, he’d been wrapped up in his Maddalena drama, and then he’d wondered if maybe it was better to admire Martino from afar.

It is definitely not better to admire Martino from afar, he decides as he watches him, from the freckles peppered over his nose to the way Martino smiles at his response.

“Okay,” Nico says at last, pushing his plate away. “How about some panettone?”

Martino raises his eyebrows, doubtful. “Store-bought?”

“Asshole.” Nico laughs, reaching over to hit his arm playfully. “Yes, store-bought.” He grabs his and Martino’s uneaten plates as he rises and takes it to the kitchen, dumping the pasta in the trash and opening the box he picked up the other day.

When he gets back to the living room, Martino has made himself comfortable on the couch and Nico joins him, handing over a slice of panettone.

It’s a little cool in the apartment, air creeping through the cracks in the windows, and Nico grabs the blanket off the back of the couch, tucking it over his knees and throwing it over Martino as well. Martino doesn’t say anything as he does so, eating his panettone.

“It’s still snowing,” Nico says, glancing out the window. It must be a record snowfall.

“We’ll probably be stuck inside for a while,” Martino says, brushing crumbs off his shirt, but he’s not looking out the window as Nico turns back to him.

“Probably,” Nico agrees, skin thrumming under Marti’s gaze. His own eyes drop to Martino’s lips, the way they’re slightly parted, how pink they are in the dim lights of the living room.

Martino opens his mouth to say something else, but Nico doesn’t let him, unable to fight the urge rising up to lean over and kiss him. So he does, hands curled around the back of his neck, lips fitted together in a soft, swelling kiss that only leaves Nico wanting more.

Martino exhales against his lips when they part, shaky, warm, careful like maybe he’s not sure. For a second, Nico hovers there, against his lips, fingers sliding through Martino’s hair, waiting for an answer to an unspoken question.

He gets it a second later as Martino kisses him this time, pushing into his space, opening his mouth to Nico’s tongue, soft and warm and all-encompassing as Martino’s arms slide around his neck and he shifts up, onto his knees, shoving the blanket off of their laps so he can climb into Nico’s.

Nico isn’t sure what he expected, but he likes this confident Marti on top of him. He likes the comforting weight in his lap, the way he has to tilt his head up to meet Martino’s kisses, how he can smile in between, fingers sliding under the hem of Martino’s shirt.

His chest swells with Martino pressed to him, hands firmly on his waist, keeping him steady as if Martino is going anywhere. Breaking away from his mouth, Nico presses his lips to Marti’s neck, wants to kiss all of him, suck bruises deep into his skin so Martino will always remember.

He hears Martino’s breath, hot and heavy as he peppers kisses down his throat, feels Martino’s fingers tighten in his hair, knows Martino is biting his lip when he glances up.

Martino slides down, hips pressed to Nico’s, a tight pressure that works its way down his spine, pulses deep. 

“You sure?” Nico hears himself ask, breathless, checks just to make sure as Martino moves with the roll of his hips.

Martino licks his reddened lips as he nods, swallowing thickly, smiling even as Nico kisses him again, unable to stop himself. If Martino’s sure, he’s sure too.

*

The sun is unusually bright when Nico rolls over under the covers, grimacing away from it. It’s too bright, he thinks, burrowing into the pillow, cracking his eyes open only so he can gaze at Martino across the pillow.

Martino is still asleep, eyes closed, mouth half-open, making a soft wheezing noise that Nico smiles at. He’s even cuter asleep, Nico thinks, tracing a light finger over the freckles on Marti’s nose. Martino twitches.

Nico can’t say it’s what he expected to happen. He hadn’t really gotten past drinks and movies when picturing last night, but he definitely isn’t complaining. He could wake up next to Martino for a very long time.

As he watches, Martino shifts, blinking slowly as he wakes up, squinting in the sun coming in through the window. There’s a thick layer of snow on the sill, bright white and shining.

“Merry Christmas,” Nico whispers as Martino comes to, not looking surprised to find himself there, tilting his head to look at Nico.

“Merry Christmas,” Martino murmurs sleepily, sighing slowly, smiling at Nico, and if there was any anxiety swirling around his stomach, it disappears with Martino’s smile.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Nico says as Martino rolls onto his side, curling into Nico, biting his lip.

“Yeah, you did,” Martino says, gazing at Nico. “If you hadn’t written that note, I would have spent the whole night alone and depressed. Instead, I got to spend it with you.”

Nico smiles at that, leaning over to kiss Martino just because he can.

“I should have talked to you sooner.”

“You’re not the only one,” Martino admits and Nico grins.

“Really?”

Martino shrugs, gazing up at Nico. “I saw you the day I moved in,” he says, quiet, and Nico’s eyebrows go up, surprised. “I just couldn’t think of anything to say.”

“‘Hi, I’m Martino’?” Nico suggests, laughing as Martino shoves him playfully.

“Shut up,” Martino says, but Nico would rather Martino did, so he kisses him and Martino melts against him.

It doesn’t matter what Martino might have said. Anything would have worked for Nico, and even though it took a snowed-in Christmas to make it happen, it feels like fate.

“Should we try for breakfast?” Nico asks when they part finally and he curls up into Martino, warm and cozy under the covers.

“If we’re cooking anything, we’re going to my apartment,” Martino says simply, and Nico laughs.

“I can make espresso.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Martino replies, but he doesn’t seem in any hurry to find out, and Nico honestly isn’t either. After all, it’s Christmas, and he got exactly what he wanted.

*

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Give me all the Christmassy fic love <3


End file.
